


Say Uncle

by xfandomwritingsx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Say Uncle, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfandomwritingsx/pseuds/xfandomwritingsx
Summary: Varric and Aliss Hawke play a game of bets during their time at The Winter Palace.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	Say Uncle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaintLeona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintLeona/gifts).



> This is my first time entering Hightown Funk! It has been so much fun and SaintLeona, I hope you enjoy!! I feel like this could have been a 10k drawn out story, but I apologize I didn't have quite the energy for that at the moment. Perhaps another day!

“Aliss,” she hears Varric’s scolding, but intrigued voice from behind her. “What are you doing?” They’re not even into the Winter Palace yet and she’s on her knees in front of a locked door, rattling her lock pick through the hole.

“Clearly I’m fighting a dragon,” she quips and he cracks a smile while folding his arms over his chest which is slightly uncomfortable in the ridiculous formal clothes he’s forced to wear. They’re in a corner of the front gardens, away from the prying eyes. Most everyone is focused on the Inquisitor’s arrival anyways.

“Clearly,” he echoes, highly amused at her inability to act proper for more than a few moments. “What exactly is behind that door?” he asks before looking around, taking in their surroundings. “My money’s on it being a storage shed.”

“No one locks a storage shed,” Aliss argues, continuing her work on unlocking the door.

“Rich people who worry about poor people stealing their property do,” he counters, waiting patiently.

“Two silvers says this leads to a back part of the palace.” He hums as though he’s considering it, but they both know he’s going to take the bet.

“Two silvers it is, Hawke.” Almost as if on cue, the lock clicks open. Varric wonders briefly if she’d been able to open it a few moments before, but waited for him to agree for dramatic affect. It amuses him.

She tosses that smile over her shoulder that always made him feel happy. Now though, it’s been starting to give him a different sort of feeling. A tingly kind that he’s been trying to ignore. He’s become quite proficient at ignoring his feelings the last few years.

Hawke stands and swings the door inward, confidence beaming on her face. It melts away quickly when the room is revealed to be exactly what Varric had suspected; a shed filled with gardening supplies.

“Looks like you’re out two silvers,” he chuckles and holds out his hand expectantly. She twists her mouth and narrows her eyes.

“Keep a tab,” she tells him. “I’ll come out on top by the end of the night.” Varric smiles widely. A night of bets and games with Hawke? Looks like this night is going to turn out more exciting than he’d planned.

“Your confidence will be your downfall, Aliss,” he teases. “I know more about these uppity Orlesians than you do.” She crosses her arms and cocks out her hip.

“We’ll see about that.”

~~~

“Twenty bits says I can get that man in the corner to squeal like a nug,” she challenges with a smile. They’re in one of the sitting rooms on a too-poofy chaise lounge, too-fancy drinks in hand. Varric scoffs.

“Hawke, you can’t stab people here,” he chides playfully as he looks in the direction of her target; an older gentleman in a golden mask and white robes. Probably goes to whore houses and asks to get flogged.

“I’m not going to stab him!” Aliss defends, setting down her empty silver chalice on the glass table in front of them. “But I will make him squeal.” He swirls his own chalice, still filled to the brim with fruity wine he couldn’t bring himself to swallow down.

“It’s a bet,” he agrees. He knows he’s about to be out twenty bits, but he suspects the entertainment that’s going to unfold is well worth the cost. Aliss beams next to him before snatching his cup right out of his hands. She takes a sip of it, holding his eyes the entire time.

“Watch and learn, my friend.” She gives a smirk as she stands.

Varric watches with intrigue, a ghost of a smile on his lips as Hawke walks across the room, staying close to the wall so she can step up behind the man. She stumbles, faking a trip over her own feet and knocks into the man. There’s no squeal, just an annoyed glare you can see even with the mask still on his face. The squeal comes when the man looks down and sees the red wine Hawke has _accidentally_ spilled all over the side and back of his white robes.

“You filth!” he cries in a high pitched whine. The room quiets to turn and watch the commotion. “These are the finest silks! They cost more than you than you could earn in your entire, pathetic, life, you urchin!” Varric bites down on his lip to reign in his amusement and approaches the two. Hawke is faking an apology, going so far as to attempt to wipe the wine out of his garment, doing nothing but rubbing it in. The man hisses and pulls away. “You absolute swine!”

“I wouldn’t go talking to the Champion like that, buddy,” Varric advises quietly as he comes towards the man. He uses his best friendly warning voice for show, implying not a threat, but a concerned worry. The man takes a moment to connect what Varric has said with the woman who ruined his clothes.

“ _The_ Champion?” he stammers. “Of Kirkwall?” He stares at Hawke in disbelief.

“Who is _so_ , _so_ sorry about your robes!” She even throws in a bit of a fake slur to authenticate her pretend drunkenness.

“When I wrote my book, I left out the part about her not being able to walk in a straight line,” he whispers as though it’s a coveted secret.

“Pardon me, my lady,” the man says in a much more polite tone while slowly backing away, clearly wanting nothing more to do with this situation.

The moment he’s out of sight, Hawke’s expression clears and both of them fall into a small fit of laughter. The room pays them no mind, having already pulled their attentions elsewhere. She hands back his chalice with a proud smile.

“I win,” she claims triumphantly.

“Yes, now you only owe me one silver and eighty bits,” he reminds her.

“I’ll come out on top by the end of the night.” She throws him a wink and suddenly he wishes he had drank the wine. At least he could have blamed the flush he feels on the alcohol.

~~~

“Two sovereigns says that the Inquisitor calls on you to fight tonight,” Hawke proposes. Varric scoffs and leans his forearms onto the garden terrace ledge.

“We’re here to stop an assassination. That’s a losing bet if I’ve ever heard one.” She just smiles softly at him and nudges his shoulder with hers.

“So does that mean you won’t take it?” It is, of course, right then that Bull comes up from behind them and whistles to get their attention. They both turn to see the Qunari calling to them from an open window.

“Boss needs us,” he says discreetly. Varric gives Hawke a pointed look and she simply shrugs.

“Stay here,” he tells her. “Don’t harass the nobles too much.” She pouts at him and he resists the urge to scold her or even to do something juvenile back. He simply chuckles and turns to leave the gardens.

“Be careful,” she calls before he gets very far. There’s an undertone of genuine concern in her voice. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Ten silvers says I don’t even get blood on my coat.” The bet does what he hopes; turns her serious face into one with a roguish smile instead.

“Deal.”

~~~

“I owe you ten silvers,” he concedes. They’re in a back room that they probably aren’t supposed to be in seeing as how the couch he’s sitting on has a plastic sheet covering it. Hawke is on her knees in front of him, a small roll of bandages and adhesive by her leg.

“Technically you owe me eight silvers and twenty bits,” she comments a little dryly, her attention focused on bandaging Varric’s forearm for him. The wound isn’t bad, a dagger had barely grazed him enough to slice through his coat and draw blood. “It’s also not fair that you got to go rifling through the whole damn palace and I was left to mingle with stuffy Orlesians.”

“Oh, poor you not getting knives thrown at you.” His sarcasm is cut off with a hiss as she presses the bandage down. He gives her a pointed look which she returns right back to him. “There’s still plenty of time for you to go picking locks on doors in every dark corner tonight.”

“Might that be encouragement?”

“From me?” he acts dismayed by the idea. “I would never.” His gaze lingers a little too long on the way she’s biting back a smile and starts to distract himself with readjusting his coat sleeve. She throws a look over her shoulder, eyeing a large ornate door at the other end of the dusty hall.

“Where do you think that one leads?” she asks all too excitedly, slapping her hands down onto Varric’s knees in front of her. “Ten silvers says it leads to a library.” He shakes his head and tries to ignore the effect Aliss has being in between his legs, down on her knees. Not something he’s inclined to deal with at the moment.

“Leads to the royal bed chambers. Been through there already tonight.” There’s an unhidden flash of jealousy in her eyes and now it’s his turn to bite back a smile. He could have taken the bet, a sure win, but where’s the fun in that? “Those ten silvers say you can’t find the painting of the woman with fruit on her head within fifteen minutes.”

“Make it twenty minutes and twenty silvers,” she counters.

“Twenty it is.”

~~~

The clock ticks by much faster than she expected. Varric watches, thoroughly amused, as she darts in and out of various rooms, scanning the walls for the correct picture. He knows the bet was cruel, a trick even, but he couldn’t help it. He leans against the wall of the main hall, just waiting for her time to run out. Servants are scarce. He’s only seen one the whole time and they paid him and Hawke no mind at all.

“You’re out of time, Hawke!” he calls out and waits for her to reappear. She’s got a glare on her face when she does, unhappy about losing.

“Alright dwarf,” she hisses playfully. “There is absolutely no such painting in this entire wing!” He can’t hold back the coy smile and crosses one foot over the other, digging his toe into the ground cockily.

“You’re right,” he admits. “It was in the room we came from. Right behind you. Covered with a thin, sheer piece of plastic.” He takes a twisted satisfaction in the way her jaw drops open and she stares at him in disbelief. “I never said it was in this wing.”

“You’re telling me,” she begins lowly as she takes her time walking up to him. “That while I was tending to you, worried about your health and wellbeing like the good, kind-hearted friend I am, you were plotting against me?” She’s laying it on too thick to be any bit believable and he’s too proud of himself to wipe the smirk off his face. He lets her stalk up to him enough that he has to lift his chin up to look her in the eye.

“You should have specified the bet more closely,” he teases. Despite her being much taller, despite her practically caging him into the wall, he is still in control and she knows it. She narrows her eyes and considers for a moment.

“One final bet tonight,” she offers. “Winner takes all.” He raises a brow at her, interested. He honestly can’t remember who owes who what amount at this very moment, mind clouded by the smell of her perfume being so close.

“What are the terms of the bet?” he asks carefully. He’d be damned if he let her trick him in the same fashion he had her. Her tongue sweeps over her lips as she hesitates either unsure of the bet or unsure of herself. Her eyes fall to his mouth and her confidence returns.

“Say Uncle,” she says. His breath catches in his throat.

It was a game played in Kirkwall, introduced to everyone by no other than Isabela. The entire point was to make the other person uncomfortable enough to back down first and say _uncle_. It started innocently enough, but always managed to end with someone’s hand in someone else’s crotch. Fun and innocent some nights. Dark and dangerous on a night like tonight when it’s just the two of them.

They were teetering on something. Varric knows that, had known it since she came to Skyhold. There’s a line they keep getting closer to and the longer they flirt with it, the more he’s not sure he wants to stop it. Once they cross it, there’s no going back though. As appealing as the idea is, they can’t just sleep together and then go back to friends. Neither of them, nor their entire relationship, is built to go through that.

And to top all of that off, they’re in the middle of an Inquisition mission! Varric is supposed to be at the Inquisitor’s side, helping to save the maker-damned Empress of Orlais. How can he do that when his focus is on where Hawke is putting her hand or how close he can get? Everything about this game spells _bad fucking idea._

“Deal.” The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it, the undeniable pull to her and burning desire of curiosity betraying the logical side of his brain. She smiles at him, but subtly, damn near seductively.

“Good,” she muses. “We should get back to the party. The night is young.” And just like that, she’s gone. She’s walking away and leading him back to the main part of the palace. Did he really think she was just going to straight up try to grab his dick in the bedroom halls?

“Shit,” he whispers to himself. This is going to be one hell of an evening.

~~~

He makes the first move, hoping that if he starts and gets the upper hand early, that perhaps he can control how the rest of the game plays out. He knows that’s not likely, but he fools himself well enough.

She’s been keeping away from him for the last few minutes, sweeping across the room to chat with team members or random nobles, but never failing to throw him a teasing wink over her shoulder. He forces himself to wait, to bide time until a moment too perfect to pass.

She’s speaking to a lithe little man that Varric is pretty sure even he could pick up and throw across the room and the way the man is occasionally touching Hawke’s shoulder is certainly making him want to do just that. Varric swallows down a gulp of a strong drink he’d managed to get his hands on and then swaggers up to the pair as casually as he can.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, slipping up besides Hawke. “I need to speak with my mistress for a moment.” There’s a slightly shocked look in the man’s eye, but Hawke keeps her composure. “With the wife distracted, this may be our only opportunity for us to slip away. You know how it is.” He winks at the man, still shook by the brashness of Varric’s lie. That’s when Varric places his hand far too low on Hawke’s back and presses firmly enough to make sure she feels it clearly even through the fabric of her formal attire. “I’m sure you understand,” he addresses the man once more before turning his attention to Hawke entirely. “It’s difficult to resist something you’ve been wanting for quite a long time,” he says thickly, letting dangerous honesty of his words bleed through. He watches Hawke’s eyes flit to their corners, faltering at his words ever so slightly. Exactly what he’d hoped for. He gives the poor man barely a look before he pulls her away.

“So they’ll believe the heroine to be the mistress of her writer?” she asks skeptically as they walk.

“Wouldn’t be the first time that rumor’s floated through the room, I’m sure.” He hasn’t removed his hand from her back. “And don’t forget, you’re the one who started this.”

“I’m aware.” They stop walking at the entrance to the main ballroom. “And if you think a little white lie about us and your hand on my ass is going to get me to cave, you’re wrong.”

“Well in that case…” Varric smirks and moves his hand from her back down over the curve of her ass as she had suggested. She bites back a smile before stepping away.

“Come find me on the dance floor.”

~~~

Dancing is not Varric’s strong suit. Nor Hawke’s for that matter. It is for that reason that Varric chooses to stand on the balcony overlooking the dance floor for an exorbitant amount of time, watching as Hawke stands at the edge of the floor, fending off unwanted suitors.

She looks beautiful this evening, even dressed in those frumpy formal clothes. She’s recently freed her hair from the hair tie that’s nearly always holding her hair back into a ponytail and it’s given an awkward break in the volume of her hair. Yet, she still looks absolutely stunning. He catches himself staring around the same time she does. She simply crooks her finger at him and beckons him down to her.

Not one to ever resist her, he makes his way down to the dance floor where Hawke silently takes his hand and sweeps into the sea of people floating around. They must stick out horribly amongst all the Orlesians; a human and a dwarf, no masks, missing most of the steps in the dance. Quite the pair they made.

There’s a fine bit of space between their bodies at the moment, as the dance traditionally calls for which makes it easier for him to stare up at the woman in his arms. Honestly, he wants to stare down at his feet since he’s pretty sure one of them is going to step on the other’s toes, but Hawke asked him to dance for a less than wholesome reason and he’s yet to figure out exactly what that is.

She waits for the music to slow its tempo and then her hand in his tightens and the hand on his shoulder gives a gentle pull. The space between them lessens easily and it’s much easier for Varric to look at her chest than crane his neck to look at her face. And by _chest_ he means _breasts_ which are directly in front of his face.

Varric bites his tongue harshly and tries to occupy his mind with thoughts that don’t include Hawke’s bosom. The Inquisition formal attire does nothing for her, or for anyone’s, figure. The fabric is thick and strict, not allowing Varric to fully admire his view. He can’t make out a crevice or any cleavage, the fabric simply making a steep, straight slope from her neckline to the tops of her breasts.

“Come on Hawke,” he chides. “I’ve seen you in far less than this. You think sticking covered tits in my face is going to break me?” He plays the game anyways and slides the hand properly at her waist down the curve of her ass again. He notices the amused smile on her lips.

“You know, Isabela always thought it would be strange, being with a dwarf.” He doesn’t like where this is going.

“I would have thought Rivani had a ledger full of dwarfs under her belt.” In fact, he was pretty sure she _did_ have such a thing, which meant Hawke was going somewhere specific with this. She hums noncommittally and brushes off his comment.

“She thought the height difference would make foreplay very one dimensional, with a dwarf being unlikely to reach up for any hair pulling or neck kissing or kissing in general.” Her eyes are cast out over the dance floor, making sure no one gets close enough to hear their private conversation. “I told her even if that were true, they are at the perfect height for tit play.” The conversation is ridiculous. They both know this. He wants to either keep it that way or take control of it.

“I’ve always been more of an ass-man myself,” he comments, punctuating the words with a gentle squeeze to her behind. He thinks a slight shudder goes through her, but it may have just been a misstep in her dancing too. “Why do you think I always wanted to be the one walking directly behind you when we traveled?” He lowers his voice, lets the honesty slip through again. “Best view in Kirkwall.”

“Should I assume any time you are walking besides me then, that my ass is not sufficient that day?” She refuses to look down at him when he chuckles.

“Oh no,” he assures, slipping his hand back to her waist and then inching it higher. “You can assume your tits caught my attention those days.” His thumb brushes just under the slope of one of her breasts, pressing the stiff fabric in enough that he can nestle it against her skin. He feels more than he hears her sharp intake of breath and it’s hard not to smirk.

Before anything more can transpire, the music is halted and an announcement is made about the Empress making a speech shortly. A glance to the balconies shows the Inquisitor talking hurriedly with the advisors; a clear sign that whatever’s going to happen is moments from doing so. Varric has the instinctive reaction to get Hawke off the dance floor immediately.

They fall away from each other as he steps back and leads her to the stairs. He tries not to admit to himself how much he misses the feel of her in his arms.

~~~

Assassination stopped. Grand Duchess detained. All without getting more blood on his coat. Varric deems the night quite a success. And now that the politics and deadly threats are out of the way, everyone can sit back and truly relax a little. Which he takes advantage of gladly with a mug of ale and a comfy chair in a corner.

Hawke eyes him from across the room and while he may have assumed the climax of the evening put an unspoken end to their little game, the look she gives him clearly says otherwise. Her hair has returned to its ponytail, having put it up in preparation for a battle that didn’t come, and the top two buttons of her attire are undone after the formalities of the evening had been dealt with.

She approaches him with a sway in her hips and he takes another sip of his ale. He’s taken aback slightly when instead of sitting on the chair next to him, she swivels on her heels and places herself lengthwise on his lap with her legs dangling off the arm of the chair. He’s less surprised that no one in the room even looks at them oddly. This is hardly the scandal of the night.

She happily takes his drink from his hands and takes a swallow of it. As she does, he rearranges his hands, one on her thigh and the other around her waist. She licks her lips clean and swirls the remaining ale in the mug. He smooths his hand up a little higher on her leg.

“So be honest,” she tells him. “ _Have_ you thought about it?” He takes a moment to consider playing coy and asking her what she means, but he knows exactly what she’s referring to and the boldness of his answer will likely play her a little more than a tease.

“More than you’d ever guess.” He’s right. She’s quiet for a moment, looking at the ale swishing in the mug. And then she looks at him with a look he hasn’t seen before.

“Tell me about the first time you thought about it.” It’s a request, not a demand, and it makes him shift his spine and falter for longer than he wants.

“Hawke, Say Uncle is traditionally a game of physicality, not spoken words.” He knows it will only encourage her to do something physical, to touch him and to be bold about it, but he’s much better at handling that in this moment than words. And yes, he realizes the irony in that.

“As you wish,” she whispers before twisting to set the mug down and then wrapping her arms around his neck and coming in close. This he can handle. This he can play up. His hand tightens on her waist and his fingers dance over her leg, encouraging her.

“I’ve never known you to be so touchy-feely,” he teases. “Especially in the public eye.”

“Only with _certain_ people and this is hardly the public eye. I think I could strip down naked in the middle of the room and only the servants would turn an eye to me.” He chuckles because she’s not entirely wrong.

“I think there’s a certain dwarf whose eye you might catch,” he muses, moving the hand on her thigh over her hip and up to her ribcage. He feels the slightest shutter in her body. He tries to angle his hips slightly, moving his pelvis away from her as much as possible, just in case.

“Is that what it takes for a girl to get your attention?” One of her hands unwinds from his neck and traces the collar of his formalwear. “I miss your coat,” she says, fingers trailing down the chest of the shirt. “This would be much more effective if I could run my fingers through your chest hair.” She leans in and whispers in his ear. “I bet you love that.” He’s about to argue, despite the fact that she’s spot on, when he feels her tongue trace the shell of his ear. There’s an involuntary hiss from him as he presses his head into the back of the chair, consciously focusing on not moving.

“Hawke,” he groans in warning. She pulls her tongue back, but stays close to him.

“What the magic word?” she teases. Her hand drags further down his body, not quite getting between his legs, but there’s no mistaking their direction. He holds back another groan and keeps his hands where they are despite the urge to lift up and cup her breast.

“I’m not stopping you, Aliss.” He doesn’t see her raise her brow, but he’s sure she did. He knew this woman. He’d spent years watching her far more closely than he should have, far more than just a friend would have. He admits this now. He turns his head to look her in the eye. “I’m in if you are.”

He takes a deep breath and leans in, finally ready to take this step right here and now in this damned Winter Palace. If there’s anything he’s learned in the last year, it’s that he needs to stop waiting and stop being so cowardly about things he wants. And he wants her.

“Uncle,” she whispers, shying away and ducking her chin. His heart about stops and his chest tightens. “I guess you win,” she says softly, an apologetic smile on her face. He definitely doesn’t feel like a winner. He feels like a sucker.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

~~~

They don’t speak much on the way back to Skyhold. He hates the silence, hates the strange awkwardness that’s never been there before. He just hopes that by morning, they will have slept it off and everything will go back to normal. He thought the worst thing they could do was cross the line, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe the worst thing is one of them going to cross the line and the other not coming with.

He’s in the midst of a flurry of thoughts as he gets his bed ready to be slept in when someone opens his door. They don’t even knock, just walk in. That means it’s Hawke. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily, pillow in still in hand.

“Wrong room, Chuckles.” He uses the nickname on purpose since he knows she isn’t very fond of it. It’s part of the reason he was so easily able to pass the nickname to Solas. Hawke always gave him a little side-glare when he used it on her.

“No, this is the right room,” she says plainly, closing the door behind her. “I wanted to talk.” He does not.

“It’s late. We can talk tomorrow.” He can’t keep the short tone out of his voice, but he’s not exactly trying very hard to do so either.

“I owe you an explanation.” She’s apparently not letting this go. If her instance isn’t enough, she actually comes further into his quarters. “I started the game. I encouraged it. And then I abruptly ended it.”

“Because I made you uncomfortable,” he snaps. “Which, might I remind you, is the point of the game.” He tosses the pillow down right into the middle of the bed and turns to her. He can tell it’s only now when he turns that she notices he has no shirt on. With the intent of crawling into bed, he’s dressed in sleep shorts alone. Any other night, he’d smirk at the way her eyes trailed down his chest, but tonight it irritated him.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” she says after swallowing thickly. “I just think this is something we should discuss before jumping into.” He crosses his arms over his chest and chuckles bitterly.

“Since when are either of us proficient as discussing feelings?”

“We’re not,” she agrees. “But for this, for _us_ , don’t you think we should at least try?” He hates that she’s right. “I mean is this just a one-time thing?” He can tell she knows better even as she asks. “Is this a case of author falls in love with his muse?” He actually laughs at that one and relaxes his arms.

“More like foolish idiot falls for best friend,” he amends. When she offers no response, he prods. “And for the best friend?”

She still offers no verbal response. Instead, she rushes to him and drops to her knees. She still manages to be just a hair taller than him in this position, but that doesn’t deter her from taking his face in her hands and kissing him hard.

He responds eagerly, the heartbreak he refused to admit he felt when she pulled away, melting into oblivion. His hands roam her sides much more gently than they have all evening. He kisses her deeply and pulls her close. He spins her around, an impressive feat he believes with her on her knees, and pins her to the side of the bed.

“You know we haven’t actually talked about anything,” he jokes, pulling his lips away from her and trailing them down her jaw.

“Well like you said,” Her hand reaches up and gently pulls his hair tie free. “That’s not a skill we’re proficient in.” One hand running through his hair, she trails the other down his chest to slip her fingers into his chest hair as she’d mentioned earlier. He doesn’t hold in his moan. “We can talk later.”

“On the bed, Aliss,” he commands after sucking at a tender spot on her neck.

He has to admit, the night at The Winter Palace has turned out much better than he thought it would.


End file.
